The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [148]
“The marriage will be recorded at the monastery,” the Abbot said. “But have no fear, no one will know of it.”
The bride and her parents had been brought in on donkeys the night before. They had stayed in rooms of the castle that had been cleaned by Guiliano’s men and furnished with beds made of bamboo and straw. Guiliano felt a pang at not having his mother and father at the wedding, but they were under close observation by Colonel Luca’s Special Force.
Aspanu Pisciotta, Stefan Andolini, Passatempo, Corporal Silvestro and Terranova were the only ones attending the wedding. Justina had changed from her traveling clothes into the white dress she had worn with such success in Palermo. She smiled at Guiliano, and he was stunned by the radiance of that smile. The Abbot made short work of the ceremony, and then they went out on the lawn of the castle where a table had been set with wine and cold meat and bread. They all ate quickly and drank a toast to the bride and groom. The trip back for the Abbot and the Ferras would be long and dangerous. There was anxiety that a patrol of carabinieri might wander into the area and the perimeter of armed bandit guards would have to engage them in battle. The Abbot wanted to be on his way quickly, but Guiliano detained him.
“I want to thank you for what you have done today,” Guiliano said. “And soon after my wedding day I want to perform an act of mercy. But I need your help.” They spoke quietly for a few moments, and the Abbot nodded his head.
Justina embraced her parents; her mother wept and looked imploringly at Guiliano. Then Justina whispered something in her ear and the older woman laughed. They embraced again and then the parents mounted their donkeys.
The bride and groom spent their nuptial night in the main bedchamber of the castle. This room had been stripped bare but Turi Guiliano had had a huge mattress brought in by donkey, with silken sheets and a goose-down quilt and pillows bought from the finest store in Palermo. There was a bathroom as huge as the bedroom with marble tub and a vast washing sink. Of course it had no running water and had to be supplied by buckets which Guiliano himself hauled in from the sparkling stream that ran beside the castle. He had also stocked it with toilet articles and perfumes that Justina had never seen in her life.
Naked, she was shy at first, holding her hands down between her legs. Her skin was golden. She was slim but with the full breasts of a mature woman. When he kissed her, she averted her head slightly so he touched only a corner of her mouth. He was patient, not with a lover’s skill but with the tactical sense that had served him so well when he waged his guerrilla wars. She had let down her long jet black hair so that it screened her full breasts and he stroked her hair and talked about the first time he had seen her as a woman that fateful day in Palermo. How beautiful she had been then. He recited from memory some of the poems he had written about her when he was alone in the mountains and dreamed about her beauty. She relaxed in the bed, the goose quilt over her body. Guiliano rested on top of the cover, but she averted her eyes.
Justina told him how she had fallen in love with him the day she had carried over a message from her brother and how crushed she had been when she realized he had not recognized her as the little girl whose money he had replaced years before. She told him how she had said prayers for him every night since she was eleven years old, that she had loved him since that day.
Turi Guiliano had an extraordinary feeling of happiness listening to her tell this. That she loved him, that she thought and dreamed of him while he was alone in the mountains. He kept stroking her hair and she caught his hand and held it, her own